


Admiration, Framed in Novel Things

by swampslip



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Fluff and Angst, Happy ending!!!, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, artist4artist, haven't been here in a minute i'm sorry adkfjhb, hi, no tb!, repost, top albert :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampslip/pseuds/swampslip
Summary: Arthur decides to tease him a bit.“Can you tilt your head up a bit?”Al lifts his chin, slightly.“Relax your shoulders?”Al does as asked.“And then look at me?”Brown eyes lift to meet his and Arthur almost regrets his request.Flusters, a bit.Al looks sopleased.
Relationships: Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52





	Admiration, Framed in Novel Things

**Author's Note:**

> albert is fun to write because i get to use exclamation points for Happy! Emphasis!

“Mr. Morgan, you have saved me once again,” Albert’s leaning over, hand on his knee and catching his breath as he sets down his camera. 

Arthur chuckles quietly, rubs a hand over his softened jaw and shrugs. 

They’d been running from a big bull of a boar. 

Finally lost the beast by sliding down a moderate grade, muddy cliff. 

“Oh, look at the state of my trousers!” Albert cries, aimlessly wiping at the mess. 

“Oh, You’ll be fine,” Arthur pats the younger man’s shoulder before pulling back, “Little soap and water’ll take it right out.”

Albert huffs and pulls a handkerchief from a pocket in his vest. 

Roughly rubs the dirt from his hands. 

Arthur feels himself smiling in amusement. 

A touch fond. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Albert relents, taking his bag from Arthur.

“Well,” Arthur clears his throat, peers into the trees, “Suppose you should call your horse and head back to town?”

Albert mutters something, shakes his head. 

Focuses on the older man. 

“I’m in your debt, Mr. Morgan,” Albert quirks his lips to the side in contemplation.

“Nah, nah,” Arthur makes a dismissive motion with his hands. 

“I insist,” Albert lays a mostly clean hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “I recall you talking once about your drawings?” 

“I… Er, I _try_ to draw,” Arthur resists the urge to shrug. 

Doesn’t want to lose the contact. 

“And you said something about drawing flowers? Yes?” Albert smiles at him kindly. 

“Sure,” Arthur shifts his weight. 

It isn’t conscious. 

He thinks it’s the slight loss of balance that comes from gaining several pounds in a short period of time. 

He doesn’t realize he’s leaned into the touch. 

Albert does.

“Well then! How does it sound for me to treat you to a visit to the botanical gardens? Just a city over,” Albert squeezes Arthur’s shoulder lightly then lowers his hand slowly. 

Watches Arthur’s forlorn gaze follow it all the way to his side. 

Arthur looks up, a faint smile pulling his lips. 

“Sure,” He repeats. 

\--

The gardens are more than he could have dreamed of. 

Colors of flowers he didn’t even know _existed_.

Albert paid for their tickets and led him past the crowds, through an open garden to a greenhouse in the way-back. 

“Been here before?” Arthur asks. 

“Hah, yes, I used to photograph the butterflies, right after I quit taking portraits of ‘high society’,” Albert says.

Opens the glass and wood door. 

It’s warm, almost suffocating at first. 

Humid and hot. 

Everything is _green_. 

The colors are distinctly exotic, he passes a flower as Albert leads him further into the greenhouse that he swears is orange and _blue._

Albert is obviously familiar in this setting, his fingertips occasionally reaching out to brush the leaves, while his other holds his camera. 

Arthur volunteered to carry the younger man’s bag. 

His own on his hip. 

There’s a second section to the greenhouse. 

A small room, a glass ceiling. 

A small metal table and set of stools. 

The walls are covered in vines, some with blooms, others with captivating veining-patterns.

Arthur whistles lowly. 

Albert chuckles and moves to set up his camera in the corner, facing the table. 

“I hope this is adequate for you to draw?” Albert poses the question. 

“It’s… It’s _real_ fine, Mr. Mason,” Arthur says, hushed as he moves to examine one of the small peachy flowers. 

Rounded, fluted edge on an elongated cone-shape. 

“Trumpet vine,” Albert says from behind him, “Hummingbirds love it.” 

Arthur twitches slightly. 

Hadn’t realized he’d gotten absorbed enough to not hear the younger man moving around. 

“Pretty,” Arthur says, “You take pictures of them too?”

“The birds? Only briefly, I found they like me about as much as wolves do,” Albert says, obviously amused. 

Arthur hands over Albert’s bag then takes a seat at the table. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Albert says as he goes back to his camera, “If I take a couple of photographs of the artist?”

“Mr. Mason,” Arthur huffs, “I really ain’t much-of-a artist.”

“Hm,” Albert smiles widely at him, ducks behind the camera.

Arthur can’t fight the twitching of his own lips, the other man’s radiance contagious. 

He pulls out his journal and starts sketching the ‘trumpet’ flower. 

Gets absorbed. 

Hears the spark and pop of the camera going off. 

Glances up. 

Albert gives him a reassuring look. 

Motions him to continue. 

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, moving to get a different angle. 

“Oh!” He hears Albert exclaim, from behind him while he’s fleshing out a drawing of a section in the room. 

“What?” Arthur asks and cocks his head back to look up at Albert. 

The younger man flusters. 

“Ah, I just,” Albert shifts, “Mr. Morgan, I’m really not quite sure how you don’t consider yourself an artist!” 

Arthur gives the younger man a funny look. 

A little bit taken aback, not quite believing. 

“No, honestly,” Albert insists and moves closer to point at part of the drawing, “The detail you’ve captured! It’s perfect, not overly rendered but has a _liveliness_ to it.”

“Mr. Mason,” Arthur drawls, “You flatter me.”

“I’d hope so,” Albert replies, like he didn’t really mean to say it. 

Looks a little shocked at himself. 

Arthur quirks a brow at the younger man then gestures to one of the other stools. 

“Lemme draw you, then, if I’m such an _artist.”_

“I’d… I’d be honored, Mr. Morgan.”

“Call me Arthur.”

“Well,” Albert ducks his head and rubs his hands over his pant legs as he sits, “Call me Al, then.” 

The younger man had ducked into the local hotel’s bathing rooms to change into a spare pair of trousers. 

Arthur had just brushed the dried mud off his dark pants and hoped it didn’t show too much. 

Not that it mattered, people in these parts stared at him like some kind of circus animal anyway.

Al shifts into a comfortable pose, one ankle crossed over the opposite leg’s knee. 

His hands folded over each other, resting on his calf.

Arthur decides to tease him a bit. 

“Can you tilt your head up a bit?”

Al lifts his chin, slightly. 

“Relax your shoulders?”

Al does as asked.

“And then look at me?”

Brown eyes lift to meet his and Arthur almost regrets his request. 

Flusters, a bit.

Al looks so _pleased_. 

In a way Arthur hasn’t seen him before. 

“That's good,” Arthur clears his throat and starts sketching. 

Glancing up to Al’s face. 

Back to the page. 

Again and again. 

While carefully moving the lead of his pencil over the page. 

He isn’t the best at portraits, prefers landscapes. 

But he wants to live up to Al’s expectations. 

He wants the younger man’s praise and pride. 

When he’s done he hesitates. 

Scans the page over and over for any flaw he could fix before showing the man. 

He _could_ start over. 

“Are you finished?” Al asks, beaming with excitement. 

“Er… Yeah, I guess,” Arthur says and slides the sketchbook across the table. 

Al takes it reverently. 

Lips parted slightly as he studies Arthur’s image of himself. 

“Your name is quite appropriate,” Al murmurs. 

“How so?”

“Your calling?” Al smiles up at him, reaches across the table to squeeze Arthur’s thick wrist where the older man’s fist is clenched around the pencil. 

Arthur relaxes at the touch. 

Doesn’t mean to. 

“Art.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/gwennolmarie)   
>  [horny twitter](https://www.twitter.com/swampslip)   
>  [tumblr](https://providentialeyes.tumblr.com)


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